Archive for November, 2009

I’d recently come across Elizabeth Frazer, originally of Cocteau Twins fame. Much to my delight she had a deeply resonating relationship with Jeff Buckley, a musician that most registers on my frequency. As I data mined the net searching for clues of their affair I came across this short series detailing the symbology, synchronicity, mythology surrounding their union, one that was associated with a multiplicity of coiled, uncoiled, and recoiled emotions from both parties: http://secretsun.blogspot.com/search/label/Jeff%20Buckley I was mostly struck by the synchromystic author’s inferences of Fraser as a sort of etherwordly Siren with access to phenomenal auditory magic beyond the visual spectrum, drawing the forlorn and fatherless J. Buckley into her clutches, where his untutored and unprepared heart was distorted by a vagary of emotions in which his arrested psychic development left him vulnerable. As I’ve had an affinity with Arthurian legend since reading Christien de Troyes the later part of high school, Sir Lancelot came to mind, and speces of Lord Tennyson’s Lady Of Shalott. But even more is the image of the goddess Kali, with a necklace of skulls, dancing above her slain cohort, Shiva, after sucking his blood.

If you are not familiar with the life or music of Jeff Buckley, here is a rather folkloric slant of a documentary. The end of his life took on a mythic ambience, the emotive warrior in isolation, much like Lancelot wandering away from the Knights Of the Round Table, to nurse or attempt to rescind the flow of love he felt for Queen Guinevere. When I first discovered Jeff Buckley, I felt robbed as many of his fans seem to feel based on comments on youtube videos, but the more I delve into his music and the more the mystical qualities open up to me, I realize my spiritual naivete and move closer to a flowering understanding of the elegance of death. The Great Summit of Judgment or the Eternal Damnation runs through the river of Western eschatology. Holding onto those old stories, it’s easy to retreat in fear at the prospect of Kali and her sword or tremble at the great wrath of Jehovah. Maybe we will find that once abandoned to the flow, we will be where we believe we shall be. In Buckley’s case, he washed up at the end of Beale Street, home of the blues.

Only days after the blitzkrieg at Fort Hoodwinked, the DC Sniper is sedated to death. Either the Perennial Avatar has a fetish for synchronicity or the kulturkampf trumpeters from Tavistock and its international subsidiaries have just orchestrated another segment in their Changing Images of Man ritual. The marauding Watchmen have already proposed a toast to the suggestive mind of a frail and vulnerable humanity; that permanent peace is beyond the grasp of our outreached hands sans the cathartic radioactive contamination of the earth. And maybe somewhere circling the dusty steeps of Iron Mountain, the hidden hands of the Crown are finally marching their Clydesdales to the tent cities below, for the Pivoting of Civilization can only be realized with our names on the contract titled Georgia Guidestones.

To ensure our full cooperation to this adhesion contract, “terror” has been the canon linguistic brain-stopper. What is the shelf life of a word like “terror” or has it immortally metastasized in the limbic chamber of our bio-survival circuit? How do we distinguish the terrors already taking place in many parts of the world beyond the airbrushed landscapes of the Emerald city where the barrios and the backwood prepare the feast for Holodomor? Beyond the veils of domestic catfights over pension funds, beyond the flickering incandescent lights in towering office complexes, the chemical despoliation our bodies have accustomed themselves to wafting through the phallic monuments and the pyramidal stones of the ancient brotherhoods; to lands already experiencing 2012, where always off-course sniper drones mirror Holly-wood disaster scenes, where reinvisioned Berlin walls of apartheid oppression stand stoically while the collective dementia pats itself on the back for magnanimous events of yesteryear, where “humanitarian” ethnic cleansing toils on unencumbered under the guise of crypto-democracy and crypto-dominionism while a legion of wheeling-and-dealing Screwtapes seduce the psyche of civilization in their Armani and Brooks Brother suits.

The watchmen have been standing at their post and they are weary of watching for whatever that thing is that just curled its hands over the horizon. The watchmen can’t watch for it any more than it can watch for a sports car that may well turn into a Transformer by the time it crosses Route 66 looking for its fix. Might be wise to safeguard ourselves from absolute meanings at this time when steam-headed irony has taken the road more traveled AND the road less traveled because it soon will find its divided head bumping into Planck’s Wall where the paradox converges at the cosmic potluck. Don’t be enticed to spin for the clockwork orange social engineers when their leading Chefs are serving dishes that have no definable ingredients, only implied ones. As Alan Watts was wise in saying, “the menu is not the meal.” When their abstract verbiage has become the Andromeda hobgoblin cannibalizing everything indigenous to human activity that by association any out-of-place human behavior can be conjectured as “terror” sympathetic or terrorist like, we have entered the methamphetamine tweak zone of Minority Report; a society freely walking the trail of tears to its own reduction, passive-complicit in the erection of the Panopticon, where we all graciously accept uniformity as an act of social conscious and solidarity, for to accept anything resembling eccentricity might trip the silent alarms of the incognito men peering between the crevices of the blinds from their communitarian Tower of Babel.

An ungraceful motion or an awkward, untutored harangue might compute through their digital translation software to be the quirks of an isolationist or the mutterings of a madman, or the “unmutual” ravings of the Village resistor too wedded to his or her delusions of freedom of intelligentsia or the ecstasy of spirituality, the loss of which could only make one appear, as Richard Dawkins seems to me, a dried up prune clamoring to outlaw all magic and myth to make a “safe place” for his own scientific dogma.

The lunatics are on the fringes, the lepers have been marginalized and pushed to the landfills outside the prime meridians of the enlightened geometria of Templar cities. Not a word is to be uttered less it conform to the counterfeit Universal Code of the Scientific Dictators. Not a rule is to be violated though Dionysius has hammered the planks of laws so far above our heads and decreed such a multiplicity of them than no one knows what the real rules of the game are excepting the Parker Brothers at the top of the economic food chain. Truth has become a million rambling yells and echoes at Grant Park where the tyranny of political correctness and the tyranny of guilt walked hand in hand with neuro-linguistic programming to crown a Manchurian candidate while Denzel foams over erratic notebooks and cuts chips from his shoulder blowing the trumpets to the very ones who staged the spectacle.

There will always be the Rorschachs among us curious enough at the glaring disparity to follow the white rabbit through the doors of perception and call the Queen’s blush. But the tricks and traps concealed within ubiquitous symbols has been a safe haven among a society of functional illiterates. We seem to have a knack for bumping into malice and mistaking into for the actual magic; not to say that certain malice doesn’t posses magic but depending on what square of the chessboard we are on, we might be invoking the side of the coin we did not call out. And if the mind be caught in the web of Wag The Dog “terror”, the more inclined that mind is to pick up the first figurine coming off the assembling line of the National Training Laboratories in “hopes” that this time the choice will be more than “paper or plastic?” How odd is it that millions of people wait with baited breath for the decision of one man? I repeat, millions of people wait for the decision of one man. The walls are collapsing in our own homes but somehow eyes are laser honed on an affirmative action stooge hundreds or thousands of miles away.

Return ye children of men.

After being a widget or a cog in the mechanistic carousel of the blind watchmaker it is no ease to return to the scrapyard of humanity. Being hermetically sealed in the catacomb of the death culture makes the spasm of oxygen that seeps into our self-created sepulchers throw one into an asthmatic whip o’ whirl. The slip of the terahertz wave is writing the obituary but we refuse to show up to our own funerals. If the cowards among us will not die of their own volition, and I know a few things about the protocols of cowardness, the universal bill collector will call the notes due and sweep in with the vulgarity of the gadfly. The true holder in due course, the Principal Agent, that which I might call by a dozen names depending on my geography, has channeled a message, “swear no oaths to the monoliths.” Terror has performed as their talisman to coerce us all into co-signing the contract for our own disposal. Don’t let fear be our invitation to the purging.